


Lost in the storm

by Neonbat



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Book and video game lore mash up, Dandelion is a perv but a good one, Geralt secretly loves teasing the hell out of his bard, M/M, Weather mini challenge, fight me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-04 16:42:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10283411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neonbat/pseuds/Neonbat
Summary: The rain is raging and when Dandelion finds himself cold, wet, and distracted there are only one of two ways the night can turn out in regards to the Bard's attentions.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Ookkkay. So this is my first entry into the Witcher fandom. I ridiculously love the books and games, so I decided why not. I made this for a challenge, so what better way to stretch my legs.
> 
> Side note, I know I only used Dandelion instead of Jaskier in the fic, but that's because I find that version of his name adorable. Fight me xP

The rain pummeled everything it touched, weighted and angry. Even the horses drudged with heads held low as their sodden riders peered into the grey that blanketed them. The weather had been a delight in the waking hours, brisk and bracing, but scented sweet with spring daffodils. It was these harsh turns to such a promising day that had one of the riders steadily complaining while he shivered under the canopy of his heavy cloak.

“I thought you knew this region.” Dandelion grumbled lowly, confident his travelling companion could hear him despite the downpour.

Not for the first time since the rains began, the Witcher wondered what possessed him to keep the Bard as a companion. Surely he would have made better time had he departed from Dandelion’s route at Rinbe, yet as usual, the Bard had made a tempting case of a promise of a tankard of Temerian Champion once they reached Vizima. It would take him that much longer to swing back around towards Vengerberg, but he had always been indulgent of Dandelion’s whims.

“Perhaps I could find it if it wasn’t for your constant grousing.” Geralt ground out, dark eyes swivelling from the bleak scenery to survey his long-time friend. In truth, he worried for the man. The biting cold of the rain meant little to a Witcher, yet he could see the quiver of the Bard’s body through fat droplets of rain. He needed to find where he had planned to camp for the night and fast, less the other man fall prey to illness.

Before Dandelion could start up another volley, something snagged the Witcher’s eye. “Quiet.” He hadn’t really needed the man’s silence to concentrate, but hearing Dandelion fussing would only serve to aggravate him at this point.

Ahead Geralt could make out the shape of a worn game path leading into a sparse section of trees, a break in the line of the forest’s trunks. ”Here it is. Hope for your sake it hasn’t been burned or infested.” His heels dug into Roach’s shoulder to spur the languid horse to attention as he turned them off down the path.

It didn’t take long to reach the hunter’s shack located a ways up the path, it was difficult to make out but it looked to have all four walls and a roof, and for that he was grateful.  “Stay here.” He instructed as he dismounted, tossing his steed's reins to the fumbling musician. Instinct told him to never trust a familiar place, even when no signs of life were overtly present. Only when he had made a round about the ramshackle lodge and peered inside did he motion the shivering human forward so they could tie up the horses in the lean-to attached to the weathered building.

“Well it isn’t the Passiflora but at this point, I’ll take anything.” Dandelion was already in brighter spirits upon sauntering in, even if his confident stride was ruined by the quiver of his hands and the weakness of his legs. The place wasn’t the worst hole he had ever had to cower in, but the Bard was (in his humble opinion) a man of tastes, and the prospect of sitting on the dirt floor in his embroidered breeches did nothing for him as it did Geralt. The Witcher had already stripped off his jacket and placed it over a dust-covered cabinet and was busying himself with the humble fire pit located in the middle of the hut.

Resigning himself to the dirt, Dandelion removed his soaked hat and cloak to drape on a nail. As he debated removing his doublet, a loud crack from a few paces away sent a jolt from toe to nose. Whirling about, he watched as Geralt broke another piece off one of the dilapidated chairs to throw onto the meagre pile of sticks that had been stacked in the corner from another passerby. His fears of getting his trousers dirty were fast becoming reality if Geralt broke down the remaining stool.

“Well, that’s one way to do it.” Dandelion smirked, briefly turning away as fire flared brightly from Geralt’s hands after a gestured ‘ _Igni_ ’. Wood crackled and popped under the flare of bright flame called from what seemed like thin air. Even if he had seen Sorcerer and Magician alike, the Witcher’s signs never ceased to amaze him. The ability to call up magic from their fingertips, quick and agile, fitting for a man like Geralt.

“There. Least now we can dry ourselves.” Geralt’s voice drew his blues back to the now-burning fire, modest as it was. It would be enough to get their clothing dry, and that alone was a blessing. Even as Dandelion made to work on the buttons of his handsomely tailored outer shirt, Geralt was already a step ahead. It made sense when he thought about it, removing their clothes until they were left in their smalls, but in practice, Dandelion found himself unprepared. It wasn’t the first time he had watched the Witcher undress, and he doubted it would be the last, yet each time a small voice within bade him to look longer than he rightly should have.

At first, it had just been a curiosity. Even back then when their friendship was new and his knowledge on the Witcher was limited, Dandelion had been fascinated by him. Over the years, those scars he had seen etched into Geralt’s deathly pale skin had multiplied fourfold, crisscrossing chest, or pocking shoulder, until there was scarcely a free bit of skin the length of his hand that was not marred by them.

And yet... Perhaps marred was a poor choice of words. Decorated was more apt, for the scars did nothing to detract away from Geralt’s odd aesthetic. His shoulders were defined to the point of inducing jealousy, with a trim waist tapering down to strong, swift legs. He was a fine specimen among men and elves alike, and there was no shortage of admirers at any given time. Even his peculiar hair colour gave him an air of the exotic when to others it would make them seem dowdy and even perhaps ill.

“You’re going to get sick if you don’t take your sodden clothes off. We’re too far away from Vizima for you to take ill.” Considering their past troubles, Geralt was in no hurry to worry about Dandelion’s prone body as a fever took him. Sometimes the Bard could be deceptively delicate, and it wasn’t something the monster-slayer would easily forget again.

 Geralt was already down to his smalls by the time Dandelion shed his undershirt, lips pressed into a faint line as he hesitated with the buckle of his breeches. “Did you bring my bag in?” It occurred to him he hadn’t even thought about it, too used to relying on the other man to pick up the details.  
  
“Door.” Geralt motioned towards the saddlebags he had rested against the wall near the door as he bent to tend to the flames, firelight licking at the milky flesh of his legs.

Tearing his eyes away from the inviting swath of flesh, Dandelion hurried to go through his things. “Damn.” He scowled, finding the rain had seeped into almost every layer of his spare set of clothing. He would have to lay those out as well.

“Dandelion.” Geralt’s voice held a tone that left little to be argued with. His nagging had taken on an air of insistence born of concern.

Sighing the human man resigned himself to his situation and retrieved his cloak from the wall to lay on the floor, all the while ignoring the probing look of curiosity from the Witcher’s face. Even if most thought the man as stoic as a stone, Dandelion knew his expressions all too well.

Returning to his buckle, Dandelion fixed the inquisitive older man with a warning stare. ”Don’t laugh.” He shed his trousers to lay out with the rest of his outfit, cheeks burning all the while.

“Dandelion,” The insistent tone had shifted into a tone Dandelion knew well. It was the tone the Witcher used when trying to decide how to handle the troubadour and his shenanigans without hurting the other man’s ego. ”Why aren’t you wearing smalls?” It wasn’t as if Geralt hadn’t seen the musician nude before, but rarely did he parade around without underclothing of all things.

Roosting on his stretched cloak, Dandelion angled his head with a defiant sniff. ”It’s quite comfortable.” In truth, it had become a bit of a habit after his latest tryst with a young noblewoman in Novigrad who had thought it to be the height of thrilling to forgo undergarments in public places. Even when the passions had cooled and Dandelion moved on, the sensation of the impropriety had kept its quiet thrill.

A small snort sounded from the Witcher as he shook his head, far too used to Dandelion’s unique tastes to find him peculiar for just this. Once Geralt was satisfied with the flames, he moved off to his bags to lay out the spare items in his own pack, unwilling to lose a good undershirt to mildew. Once satisfied he had laid out all that needed to air, he turned back to watch Dandelion. The bard still shivered, unable to return to stasis when his skin was still damp and the fire so small.

Once again, Dandelion startled as Geralt settled next to him on his cloak, eyebrows raised in question until he realized Geralt had sat to where the lines of their body met. Warmth radiated off of Geralt to a surprising degree. If it was anyone else, he might have thought the man burned with fever, yet his skin was already dry to the touch, and his heart beat slow and steady. Had Geralt's body always been so warm?

“My mutations affect the heat of my body.” Geralt’s low voice rumbled at the question unvoiced.

The human man worked to steady the sudden lurch of his heart’s rhythm. “Oh? How convenient that must be. No wonder you are always as fresh as May in the bitter months.” Dandelion teased, leaning against the older man’s shoulder with greed in his heart. It was almost an affront for Geralt to be that warm when he could barely feel his fingers and toes. “You’ve hidden this from me for so long, even in that storm two years passed? How uncharacteristically cruel.” He feigned hurt, knowing it would just needle Geralt into a huff.

And huff he did. Geralt levelled a tried gaze at his companion, “I am not your personal bed-warmer. You’d stay warm if you wore proper clothing instead of that purple monstrosity.”

Now it was Dandelion's turn to pout, “Monstrosity? Strong words coming from a man whose only finery is oiled leather.” He volleyed back, smirking at a small grunt as he jostled the Witcher in his wiggling.” I daresay, though, perhaps I’ve erred in my choice of said bed-warmer. You’re far more apt than any silk-skinned maid I’ve charmed into bed.” He regretted it the moment the sentence had spilt past his fool lips. The intention was there, yet the wording had been poor once again. Things had taken on connotations he had never meant to voice aloud, but the heat of the fire and of the other’s body was doing peculiar things to his weary mind and body.

For a tense moment of silence, Dandelion thought the other might draw away out of disgust. Once he hazarded to chance a glance at the other’s pale face, he found Geralt staring at him with a gaze truly unreadable, which was a rarity for someone who knew the man so well.

At length, the man finally spoke, “I think I hear the sound of hearts breaking across the lands, Dandelion.” A playful smirk quirked his pale lips, an expression the musician sorely enjoyed. Dandelion was still trying to root himself against him, desperate to warm more than just one stretch of his flesh against the firm muscles of the swordsman.

“Then they will just have to- Ah- Geralt?” Dandelion tilted, the sudden loss of support against his side shifting his balance to the right. He felt Geralt shift behind him and arms encircle his shoulders to draw him back until he could press against the Witcher’s broad chest. Dandelion’s heart spurted once more, quickening as Geralt settled him against his body between his legs. Heat lit fire-trails along Dandelion's cooled skin, up the length of his outer thighs, and almost the entirety of his back.

“Better?” Geralt questioned, gratingly calm in such an intimate position. Such was the Witcher’s way, brusque in his care, but doting to a fault. Geralt always went out of his way to care for him, more than Dandelion felt he rightly deserved. His life had been in the balance so many, many times, and Geralt always found a way to pull him from the brink, even at the cost of his own blood and flesh.

Dandelion swallowed hard, nodding quickly as he tried to still his frantic heart. Geralt’s draped arms hung over his exposed chest, fingertips dusting just under his pectorals. It was as distracting as it was enticing. How many times had he fantasized about something like this, three pitchers deep into a good mead and staring as the Witcher’s attentions were on some buxom woman? It wasn’t as if he despised the women he slept with, but jealousy was an ugly emotion, especially to one as intent on beauty as the troubadour. Dandelion had a string of lovers as long as the Pontar, but there was a fire in him that had smouldered for years in regards to his long-time friend. There were few men that struck his fancy in such a way, but Geralt had managed to stay steady in his attentions for longer than he ever cared to admit.

It was unfair. That Geralt still looked so much like the man Dandelion first met, and yet his own body was ageing. Dandelion aged as gracefully as a swan, and not by just his own description. The bard constantly taken as a half-elf was showing signs, be it at the corners of his too-blue eyes, or an errant strand of grey threading into the rich chestnut of his mane. Geralt, however, decorated his skin became, felt like a portrait, only showing superficial signs of wear while still looking strong and formidable in the flow of time.

“Yes, thank you.” It sounded thready to his own ears, he could only wonder what it sounded like to Geralt’s. Geralt must be able to hear the frantic pounding of his heart or the small stutter of his breath as the Witcher let his fingertips brush too close over his companion’s chest. Each rise and fall of Dandelion's chest brought his skin to Geralt’s fingers until it was scarcely the only thing in his focus. So close- He was so close to being under Geralt's hand and yet miles away.

Geralt's arms tightened slightly, pressing Dandelion more firmly to him to still his small movements that shifted them to and fro. Briefly, in that action, a broad hand stretched flat over sun-brushed skin, burning fire in its wake. Dandelion sucked in a soft breath as he was drawn closer under that hand, leaning into Geralt's stable hold until his head rested in the grove of Geralt’s neck and shoulder. Geralt smelled of blade oil and rain, a pleasant combination when one took into consideration the witcher was often covered in all manners of monster-offal.

Above him, he felt Geralt still, spine straight and unyielding. Curious, he searched the other’s face, wondering what had distracted him so. Slowly, his eyes trailed down the length of their bodies where the older man was looking, and to his shame, he realized he had let his senses linger too long upon the scent of Geralt’s skin or the heat of his hands. His cock had perked slightly under his firelight daydreams, betraying his interest and his humiliation.

Dandelion made to sit up and cover himself, yet the strong arms held him firm. “Be still, your skin is still cold.” Dandelion felt Geralt’s voice through where their skin connected, Geralt’s chest to his back. It vibrated throughout, filling every corner of him. It did nothing to diminish his rising attentions. An arm shifted from his shoulder, only to drift and wrap around his waist, warming his stomach and slotting their torsos together with an effortless flex. It was criminal how well his body aligned with the Geralt's. Dandelion wasn’t a slight man, lean and corded, but next to Geralt he felt practically fragile.

Geralt’s eyes were still on him, pinning him under a serpent’s gaze. The shame of it should have cleared up what ailed him, but worse, it had the opposite effect. Knowing Geralt saw him and didn’t draw away in revulsion aroused his hope and body alike. He had never known the old warrior to lay with men, but there was much Geralt still kept secret about himself even after all the years spent walking in and out of each other’s lives.

Dandelion wanted to move when he fully filled, trembling under the strain of being made to hold still against the object of his passions. The hand holding his waist loosened, and for a panicked moment, he thought the other might draw away, finally spurred into departing by his companion’s blatant shamelessness.  Fingernails scraped his pectorals, making his stomach tighten and lips parts with a surprised gasp. Rough fingers slid down the plains of his smooth chest, creating lazy lines that warmed not only his skin but his lusts. Even as he craned his head to watch the aloof expression on the Witcher's face, Geralt betrayed little.

The wicked hand dipped lower, dusting the soft hair of his groin that Dandelion regularly treated with the same scented oils of his brunette crown. His breath hitched, chest rising in desperation only to find the other hand held him still. Trapped in strong arms, Dandelion made a quiet groan of frustration, willing Geralt to stop teasing him. If Geralt was playing a cruel joke then he wished he would put an end to it before it sullied their friendship forever-

“O-oh.” Dandelion gasped once more as sword-tempered fingers closed around his arched pride, the heat almost scorching.”Geralt.” Dandelion’s breaths fluttered, disbelief written over his handsome face as the Witcher’s hand slid up the length of him.

“Yes, Dandelion?” Damn him, there was an amused chuckled hidden in that deep voice of his.

As try as he might Dandelion couldn’t formulate a proper chastisement as Geralt’s hand explored the swell of him, even going so far as to slip about his bollocks, thumb pressing between with an achingly wonderful pressure. A kiss on the nape of his neck bloomed fire and his cock gave an appreciative twitch. Lips he had only ever dreamed of ignited the skin of his neck and shoulder until he was sure he would be branded by them.

Dandelion became aware of a different heat against his backside, where he could feel Geralt's solid length press against him. There was no question to it now, Geralt was doing far more than just teasing him, he was _enjoying_ himself.

Despite his efforts no amount of shifting could persuade his tormenter to let him move against him, Geralt was intent on pinning him against him until Dandelion sobbed with the frustration of it.  “Please, Geralt- Hn!” The rough pad of Geralt’s thumb drew over his reddened cockhead, welling up a bead of slick that glistened in the firelight.

“You’re impatient Dandelion. You’ve always been too quick to get things over with.” Geralt smirked into the flesh of Dandelion's shoulder before his teeth nipped, bruising soft skin that still smelled faintly of expensive oils under the Witcher's keen nose.

Geralt was keeping his pace deliberate, providing enough slow sensation to build and build, yet not enough for Dandelion to reach completion. The sounds of the Bard's sweet desperation filled the hunter’s shack, his cock weeping steadily under Geralt's onslaught.

“If-if you’re so intent on driving me mad…Then seal my lips with yours and swallow my indignity.” Dandelion begged for this small bit of mercy, eager to feel the press of his lips against the Witcher’s. At least this was rewarded as the Geralt relented enough to capture Dandelion's lips with his own. Geralt's mouth was as broiling as the rest of him, and quick did Dandelion find himself lost in it as their tongues met and lips bruised.

Only when Dandelion was breathless and pliant in his arms did Geralt’s grip tighten and his pace quicken until his friend looked to burst apart at the seams. Dandelion's teeth dug into Geralt's bottom lip as he came, spilling hard over a hand that was capable of crushing the bones of beasts if Geralt willed it. Dandelion shook in small jerks as the last bit of seed was teased out of his cock and he whimpered quietly into the pale lips above him.

Minutes ticked by and Dandelion felt as if he was suspended in a dream. Geralt’s arms had released him and he had rotated in the other’s hold until he could loop his arms greedily about Geralt's broad shoulders. This kiss was no less in intensity as Dandelion embraced him with greed born of years of heated glances and silent pining. Free to explore, Dandelion's hands traced over every scar and dip in muscle, only stopping to tug meaningfully at Geralt’s waistband. Ever the ravenous lover he boasted about in his many _many_ ballads about himself, Dandelion would not be satisfied so easily.

The fire was burning lower, and the rains still raged outside, dripping cool drops over the dirt floor, and yet it had all melted into the fever dream. Part of Dandelion truly feared this an illusion of sickness or slumber, where he would wake up to a sun-bathed morning to find Geralt meditating near the ashes of the fire, a silent sentinel as he slept. He willed whatever power that held them there in each other’s searching embrace to grant him the mercy of a long storm. The sounds of vocal pleasures and the wet smack of oil-slicked skin were lost in the peels of thunder and the cracks of lighting that lit up the darkened sky beyond the lone window.

When the storm broke and dawn streaked the dissipating clouds, Dandelion woke to find a familiar weight draped over his hip. Even laying on the damp ground in the middle of nowhere did nothing to dampen his spirits, and he drew closer, basking in the radiant heat of the naked body pressed against his own.

His companion stirred, Lips pulling into a faint scowl as he pulled the ever-squirming bard closer in his hold. ”Be still.” Geralt pretended not to hear the soft chuckling as they settled back to enjoy just a few more hours of rare serenity.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! For more info about my fanfics and things in the works my tumblr is : http://neonbat666.tumblr.com/


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